THE BIG ISSUE 15 – 28 AUG 2014 11
MY WORD
YOU ARE NOW seven years old, halfway
through Grade One and stepping
away from the soft, plushy coddling
of toddlerhood. Your face has elongated
and is no longer as saucer-round as it
was but a few years ago. The genetic code
tightly wound in your compact little body
has finally uncoiled and you are growing,
growing so quickly. There’s a sprinkling
of light freckles on the bridge of your nose
and sizeable gaps in your smile thanks to
the industrious, albeit unreliable, tooth
fairy. You are a little sceptical about
the other two powers that complete the
trinity of gift-giving benevolence – Santa
Claus and the Easter Bunny. But you’re
prepared to suspend your disbelief for a
couple more years, just in case a failure
to believe firmly enough means an abrupt
end to their munificence.
You’re starting to tinker with your
appearance, and it hurts me that body
image will be a lifelong preoccupation.
Once, unbeknown to me, you found some
blue eye shadow and smeared on a liberal
amount. This garish colouration (which
clashed terribly with your Aussie-green-
and-gold uniform) was only discovered
once we passed the school gates. Later
you tried to trim your eyebrows with a
pair of scissors. Upon viewing the nude
segments in between the normal tufts,
you were chastened, but unable to explain
your reasoning. In your most recent
school report, you scored the highest
mark. Not in the traditional subjects,
but in Art. Perhaps playing around with
colour-and-cut embellishments is simply
an extension of your creativity.
In some ways, experimentalism is
analogous to imagination. It gives me
comfort that you’re still enchanted by
fantastical creatures, fairies with gossamer
wings and silvery unicorns. From Roald
Dahl to Enid Blyton, Andy Griffiths to
Sally Rippin, we have read many, many
stories before bedtime; you huddled close
to me in your freshly laundered PJs. It’s
only recently you’ve progressed from ‘A
is for Apple’ to chapter books. You slowly
and sometimes laboriously read while I
listen, quietly delighting in the fact that,
finally, you can put the letters together
and synthesise their sounds to make
meaningful sentences. I’m unsure whether
the input of nature and nurture is equal
when it comes to child raising, but I know
that above all, I want to bequeath to you a
love and appreciation for the written word.
Aside from gifting you a toppling
mountain of books, I have tried not
to spoil you too much; fearful of your
conforming to the stereotype of the bratty
only child whose every whim is indulged
and every tantrum soothed by promises
of treats and plastic toys. But perhaps
to compensate for your lack of siblings,
you are so cherished by grandparents,
aunts and uncle that your room is
carpeted by an innumerable collection
of girly paraphernalia: Beanie Bears, My
Little Ponies, Loom Bands, Littlest Pets,
hair accessories, stickers and yes, even
Barbies. Because even though every fibre
in my feminist being strived to stop this
anatomically incorrect, flaxen-haired,
pink-loving glamour doll from parking
her pert little body in our home, you’ve
somehow stealthily obtained not only a
sizeable number of her kind, but also her
spangly costume accoutrements and tiny
stilettos that are nearly as annoying as
Lego when stepped on in the dark.
At times, your demands for attention
become wearying and frustrating. But I
have to try to remind myself that this too
shall pass. You’re only on extended loan to
me and there’ll come a time when you will
have less need for my ministrations. There
will be a finite number of moments when
you will hug me unselfconsciously; when
your little hand will slip unbidden in mine
when we are out walking together; when
you will run to me after a brief absence. I
know already (even without being one of
those inflexibly strict ‘Tiger Mums’) that
the expectation to succeed will rest heavily
on your shoulders when you’re older, in
the same way I understand that you’re not
a mini-me to be shoehorned into an image
I find most pleasing.
But this is all in the future. For the time
being you are seven. You love cats, butter
popcorn, braided ribbons in your hair,
corny pop songs and unlimited screen
time. You are affectionate, bouncy and
effervescent, and the way you scrunch your
nose up when you’re grumpy makes me
want to laugh. Happy Birthday, little one.
» Thuy On is books editor of The Big Issue.
ON THE BIRTHDAY OF HER DAUGHTER, THUY ON
REFLECTS ON SEVEN YEARS OF GROWING UP.
PHOTOGRAPHBYiSTOCK
A letter
to Ava